


Flakes of Snow

by Mx4



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Gen, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-21
Updated: 2014-10-12
Packaged: 2018-02-05 14:11:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 15,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1821271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mx4/pseuds/Mx4
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just some musings on the character of Jon Snow and the worlds he may or may not inhabit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. March of the Vanguard

When Danenerys Targaryan had ordered an assault on the Land of Eternal Winter with all the men he and Gendry Baratheon could muster, Jon Stark knew it for what it was. A sacrificial ploy. Like Allister Thorne before her, she expected him to die in a suicide charge against an enemy that would have them outnumbered and overpowered. After all, who could truly expect a pair of Robert Baratheon’s now legitimized bastards to gather many swords, either sold or sworn, for a chance to die in the middle of a frozen wasteland? To the new Queens’ chagrin and her Hands’ never-ending amusement, the two of them had managed to attract a number of southern **and** northern warriors who wished to have their name and the name of their house remembered in a glorious battle against the encroaching evil of the frozen wastes. 

The unfortunate reality of the long march and the knowledge that the main army was at least a week behind them all when they set out from the Wall put a great damper on many spirits. But Jon and Gendry led on, they managed to keep desertion to a minimum and morale up enough to allow the gathered force of Southern Knights, Northern Lords and Wildling Warriors to awaken the next day and march toward an uncertain future. They were carriers of the will of the Old Gods said some Northerners from both sides of the wall. They were the Smith and the Warrior leading their faithful to destroy that which threatened the believers some of the southerners had whispered. The half-brothers had shared many a rolled eye between them when they’d first heard the contrasting yet similarly fanciful descriptions. 

Though he had never even been aware of Gendry’s existence before Danenerys’ ascension, Jon felt they got along well. They respected each other’s silences while sharing their thoughts honestly and freely when they spoke. When the thought occurred to him that he got along better with his fellow bastard better than he ever had with Robb, it sometimes made Jon feel guilty; as though he were committing a crime against the brother whose memory he still held dear. 

As they came further and further into the cold and the snow, quiet reined more and more throughout the camp. Moving past tents bearing the sigils of House Dayne and House Tarley, he entered the simple fur tent barely big enough for them to share that Gendry had designed specifically for the trek to the fabled winterland. He shook the snow from his boots and gloves as he moved further in, thoughts drifting. For the life of him, Jon couldn’t help but wonder why Danenerys wanted both men gone so badly. Despite Shireen legitimizing him, Gendry had made no effort to claim Storm’s End. He had confided in Jon and Arya one night back in King’s Landing that he had had enough of politics and nobility to last him several lifetimes. “Meaning no offense to you milady.” He’d added to Arya, a smile lighting his face as she punched his broad shoulder. 

Jon appreciated Gendry’s attempts to be there for Arya when she had still been in the Seven Kingdoms, though he had wished it hadn’t ended with Gendry trying to settle with that band of wandering swordsmen. Still, Jon knew he himself couldn’t exactly toss stones on that count after having made the decision to forsake all ties to his siblings and join the voluntary exile that was brotherhood in the Night’s Watch in order to get away from the constant scorn and vitriol of Catelyn Stark. Yes, he’d given Arya her first Needle and her beginner’s lesson in swordsmanship that she’d not hesitated demonstrating she remembered upon seeing him for the first time in years as one of the vaunted Queensguard. But that wasn’t the same as being with her, as staying by her side during the burning, the death, the destruction she’d witnessed. 

Gendry sat on his own bedroll, sharp eyes looking over what were doubtlessly more possible designs for Dragonglass weapons. Jon called to him. “Might want to rest your eyes soon. Wouldn’t want you blinding yourself before we reach the White Walkers.” Gendry glanced up at him, idly scratching the pitch black beard he’d managed to grow in the intervening years. It suddenly occurred to Jon how ludicrous this might look to those who knew Eddard Stark and Robert Baratheon. Mirror images of the two rebel leaders marching beyond the limits of Westerosi civilization on the orders of a Targaryan queen to fight a hopeless battle against unknown supernatural forces while allying themselves with so-called savages who derisively referred to all collective people south of the Wall as ‘kneelers.’ 

“No chance of that.” Gendry replied, stretching his arms over his head, jaw cracking as he yawned loudly. “Being able to see has to matter before being blind can. Does seeing really matter right now?” Jon pretended to think about it as he sat on the bed. “Can’t say it does at the moment. It might though. Once we get back.” He couldn’t help but think he was being foolishly optimistic about the chances of that happening. Apparently Gendry agreed, if Jon was to judge by the inelegant snort his half-sibling let out. “Yeah, pull the other one.” The former Baratheon bastard lay down on the bed furs he had previously been sitting on. “She wants us dead. And one way or another, she’ll get what she wants.” Jon winced minutely. “Tyrion and Arya wouldn’t allow it.” he answered automatically. “Yeah, maybe not them.” Gendry allowed. “But the Hand’s a Lannister. Even if he would speak for us, people remember his family’s rule.” 

Jon hated to think that way, but Gendry did have a point. Tyrion wasn’t like the rest of his Lannister kin. Jon knew that like he had known how he felt about his Stark heritage. He remembered the smaller man who had read a book on the way to piss off the edge of the world. The same man who’d claimed to have a soft spot for cripples and bastards and broken things. They had parted as friends when the smallest Lannister had left for King’s Landing. But when had truth ever clouded people’s perception of the world? There were those after all who still called him a traitor’s bastard even after Robb’s will had legitimized him as a Stark and the High Septons had determined Cersi Lannister’s guilt when it came to the crime of incest. 

“What about Arya?” Jon asked, his gut clenching somewhat as he asked. He knew Arya cared for both of them. That the two former bastards were both very special to her. Just as he also knew that despite their closeness, despite the intensity of his devotion to his former sister and her to him, despite their kindred spirits, she would never look at him the way she looked at Gendry. Jon knew she never would. Jon also knew she never should. But it didn’t stop Jon’s heart from aching like a long scarred wound when he thought of it too deeply. 

Gendry was silent for a time, leading Jon to wonder if the other man was pretending to sleep. Finally he heard a whispered answer. “I wouldn’t want her to stand in the way of the Queen’s wrath. Not if it meant her life.” Jon had known the answer before his brother spoke it. He had known it because it was his own. “Neither would I.” Jon returned, curling in his bed to face the tent as the already minimal light in the tent disappeared completely with the setting sun. With no other sound but the now howling wind, both men fell into an uneasy sleep. 

###### Author's Note

My thanks to all of you for having the patience to read through this first attempt at exploring a possible setting and characterization of Jon Snow. Comments, Critiques and Suggestions are much appreciated!


	2. Winter's Troublemakers (or Jon & Arya's Efforts at Driving the Rest of Winterfell Insane)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I figured there needs to be some lightheartedness to balance the darkness in the GoTs universe. So I got to wondering about Arya's prank memories, her and Jon's catchphrase of 'don't tell Sansa' and came up with this as the beginning of something special.

Catelyn Stark was exhausted. For a week straight, she had been trying and failing to find something (anything really) that would calm/appease her rambunctious newborn girl. The babe Arya had been a kicker for three solid months before she finally came into the world, keeping Catelyn up multiple nights at a time with the feeling that the newest addition to Winterfell was attempting to pummel her bladder into submission. When she was born, her squalling had woken the hounds in the kennel and set them baying in time with her screams. 

And on top of feeling the need to prove she had a set of lungs that could wake the dead, Arya had decided somewhere in the depths of her infant brain that she wanted to continue expressing herself in a very physical manner. Though it admittedly had been funny to see the solemn Eddard Stark’s gobsmacked expression when his newborn daughter had driven her tiny fist into his cheek when he held her close to his face, it was much less so now that Arya had repeated the greeting with just about everyone who got within range. These persons included but were not limited to Maester Luwin (who had almost exclaimed something very inappropriate when the infant Stark had caught him on the neck in the middle of an impromptu burping session), Catelyn herself (repeatedly much to the red-headed mother’s aggravation), the wet-nurse Old Nan (who had cackled each time and proclaimed her a lively young pup), her brother Robb (who had gotten a solid clout on the ear for some language Catelyn knew she hadn’t taught him), her sister Sansa (who had run from the room crying when Arya’s chubby knuckles had somehow managed to land squarely on her nose) and now one of the chamber maids who had made the mistake of cooing too closely to the innocent looking babe. 

Catelyn had collapsed into a chair in her sitting room, instructing Old Nan to let her know if anything happened with Arya. The next thing she knew an eager young hand was shaking her arm vigorously. As she jolted into consciousness, Robb’s eager smile greeted her sleep addled mind. 

“Mother, come see!” he exclaimed happily. “It’s amazing, come see!” 

As she rose from her chair, Robb dragging her almost forcefully up, she asked him: “What is it, Robb? What’s going on?” 

“It’s amazing, you have to see!” Was all he would tell her in reply as she was dragged up the steps to the chamber where Arya was kept.

As they neared the door, her ears picked up a wondrous sound. A baby giggling. Catelyn felt sure she was still somewhat dreaming. How else could she explain a sound that no one had yet managed to coax out of the newborn Arya Stark? As they entered the chamber, Catelyn’s rising smile abruptly fell. Her face barely moved but for a strange muscle tick she felt moving under her right eye. Multiple thoughts raced through her head all at once. If one had been permitted to hear them spoken aloud, the most prominent one by far would have been five simple words.

‘What. In. The. Seven. Hells?’

Apparently, Arya had decided she did have a favorite person that she wouldn’t attempt to hit. That she would smile and coo for like a normal infant. And that person, by a divine yet warped sense of humor, was her husband’s bastard son Jon Snow. Oblivious to his mother’s lack of cheer, Robb babbled on. 

“It’s amazing Mother. Jon’s been with her just talking and making faces and she hasn’t tried to hit him once!” 

Even as Robb spoke, Arya’s hands outstretched toward the top of Jon's skull as though she thought she would grab onto his hair. Amazingly, he obliged her by lowering his head further so that his nose was brushing her tummy. As Arya grabbed his hair, Jon put his lips to her stomach and blew air noisily onto it, causing the infant to laugh so hard her eyes squinted shut with Robb following soon after, rolling on the ground as Jon Snow continued to entertain both her trueborn children with such a baseborn fool’s tactic.

Catelyn’s eye continued to twitch.

###### Author's Note: As always, reviews are the coin of the realm. Let me know what you think!

###### 


	3. Winter's Troublemakers II (or The Origin of a Very Special Phrase)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well, apparently once you start thinking about possible moments in the Stark/Snow dynamic, it's pretty easy to think of something cute.

For the life of him, Robb Stark could not understand the behavior of his siblings lately. Well, his female siblings really since Jon acted much the same as ever.

The first time he had seen Sansa trying to wave her hands around Jon’s waist and belt and around the air behind him when his back was turned to her, he had laughed. His laugh, having caught Jon’s attention, caused his half-brother to turn around and catch their sister in the act. Sansa’s face had turned a shade of red that did their lady mother’s hair proud. Even as Sansa retreated in mortification, Jon had only smiled. Robb couldn’t figure out what that meant, on either of their parts. And though it continued to happen on and off, he still couldn’t get Jon to tell him what that was all about.

Arya of course he couldn’t understand because she was so unlike the dim memories he had of Sansa as a baby. Instead of being content to cuddle with and burble at their lady mother, Arya kept squirming and doing whatever was in her limited power to escape. She would sometimes still herself if their lord father commanded her in a stern enough voice, but Robb personally thought that was more due to his expression than his authority.

He doubted babies could truly appreciate what it meant when the Lord of Winterfell told you to do something.

When left to her own devices, she would go around just about everywhere the open doors would let her. Though she always seemed to have a destination in mind, if her determined expression while crawling was any indication. It wasn’t until he and Jon had entered her playroom together and Robb had watched her wide eyes light up and her stubby arms thrust in Jon’s general direction in that clear signal meaning: ‘Pick me up now!’ that Robb suspected if might not be a place, but a person she kept determinedly seeking out.

As Jon held Arya one day while their lord father and lady mother were meeting with Maester Luwin, Sansa had stomped in and given Jon a very displeased look. “This has gone on long enough Jon.” She said in her best imitation of their mother’s scolding tone. Jon’s smile fled as he looked up from Arya who was snuggling contentedly into his tunic, (rather adorably Robb thought but would never admit unless under threat of death or torture) to give Sansa a single raise of his right eyebrow. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He answered. Robb wasn’t sure but he thought he saw a corner of Jon’s mouth twitching in a way that meant he was trying not to smile.

Sansa stomped her right foot in irritation. “I mean, you have to take the rope off Arya!” she exclaimed, cheeks puffed out in a manner that made it seem as though she were trying to hold water in her mouth. (Robb remembered the last time he and Jon had tried to see who could hold the water longest. Oh, they’d received such a scolding for getting their clothes wet in the middle of winter.) “What rope?” Robb asked, looking over at Jon and Arya again. 

He felt a bit foolish a moment later as he remembered that he would’ve seen Jon place some leash on Arya.

“The unseen one! The one he uses to pull her to him all the time.” Sansa said in as dignified a manner as she could manage.

Robb looked at her and then to Jon with wide eyes as their half-brother simply kissed the stirring infants forehead to settle her. “No.” Jon answered, looking back at Sansa again. “Wait, you can make unseen ropes? Are you magic Jon?” Robb interrupted, thinking of all the things he could do with ropes people couldn’t see. Well, one thing really. But he was sure if Jon taught him how, he could think how to use it for things other than tripping people in the halls. “You have to! It’s not proper for you to keep a hold over her like that when she might want to be with the rest of her family!” Sansa exclaimed.

With that, Arya woke and started to make upset noises. “Stop it Sansa! You’re upsetting her!” Robb hissed in what he hoped was a whisper, so as to not encourage Arya to yell. “But, but-“ Sansa’s retort was interrupted by a familiar septa’s voice emanating from the doorway. “Ah, there you are young lady.” Septa Eleanor strode into the room. “Come, we must return to your lessons.” Sansa looked as though she might argue before visibly subduing herself. As she and the Septa began to leave the room, she shot a look over her shoulder at Jon that quite clearly proclaimed her intent to resume the discussion later.

After they left, Robb had sat watching Jon nuzzle Arya’s face quietly as the babe calmed down again. Seemingly happy with his attention, her eyes began to droop and her head pressed against her half-brother’s chest as though listening to his heartbeat. “There is no magic rope is there?” Robb finally asked. Jon looked up at him, smiling again. He carefully placed an index finger to his lips before whispering one thing to him in answer.

“Don’t tell Sansa.”

###### Author's Note

######  My thanks to my kind reviewers and kudos leavers for your support! :) Hope this new chapter meets expectations. As always, reviews are the coin of the realm and Suggestions/Comments/Criticisms are most welcome.


	4. The Prince Who Was Promised (My Version)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While listening to the GoT S4 trailer song Cities in Dust by The Everlove and pondering on the Prince who was Promised, this came to mind. Let me know what you guys think.

Jon could barely see five feet in front of him, the whirling snow and lashing wind forcing him to squint as he stumbled through the tundra. He tried vainly to make out something, anything familiar about the landscape at all. His voice was little more than a faint croak from yelling commands, battle cries and futile attempts to summon Ghost from the white tempest. He couldn’t feel either of his arms anymore, the King of Winter’s summoned daggers had seen to that. He had caught a glimpse of his arms through one of the now numerous holes in his sleeves and chainmail to see that his skin was covered in a light sheen of ice that appeared to move with his every twitch, his veins standing out against his skin as tendrils of black ice would against a frozen lake’s clear surface. 

He hadn’t dared to look again, afraid to see what it may have become.

Despite the truth his eyes showed him of his cold, he felt oddly light-headed. He knew that meant he was on his last legs, remembering the numerous warnings the Night’s Watch constantly gave their new recruits about recognizing when the cold was getting to you. Still he walked on, stumbling every other step in a defiant and ultimately futile attempt to stave off the end. 

At times, he thought he could hear a voice in the wind calling him.

He had never wanted to die like this. Alone, afraid and so very far from the people he loved. _Not alone._ He heard Gendry’s voice tell him what his guilty conscience already knew. “I’m sorry.” He answered, his slurred voice barely carrying to his own ears as the winds seemed to grow more agitated, slowing his stumbling progress further. _Your brothers are here. They wait for you._ He heard Benjen Stark reassure him in a soothing tone. “But my sisters…they’re behind…behind…” He couldn’t finish the thought. Where were they? Had he lost them? He felt a flash of panic. His fathers and his brothers were already dead. His uncle had died somewhere out here. Were his sisters dead too? Or were they searching for him even as he sought to find them?

But where could he turn to find them? Where could he- _Calm yourself boy._ Commander Mormont’s voice hissed. _You serve no one by panicking like this._ The commander was right. But then again, the former Lord Commander was dead, so how much could he really care for the living? The dead wouldn’t see the same world as the living, wouldn’t see the necessity for doing whatever desperate act kept you alive for another day, hour, moment. Why should they? Their time had already come and gone.

Jon hadn’t even realized he’d dropped to one knee until the ground was suddenly rushing to meet him and his right hand had automatically shot out to stop his descent. His formerly numb limb coming into contact with the ground made him feel every nerve in it flare up at once as though trying to restore sensation before going out in one last blaze of glory. His mouth opened in a silent cry of agony as he remained as immobile as possible, trying to minimize the sensations to no avail. After minutes that seemed to stretch like days, he became aware of a pair of boots in front of him.

He craned his neck to look up at the person standing in front of him. His fears were proven true. The King of Winter had caught up with him. The mythical figure was at once less and more impressive than he had imagined. Unlike the white walkers, who had appeared to be almost skeletal in nature, the Undead King appeared to be as a man. With skin paler than Ghost’s fur and eyes the vibrant blue color of the Smith’s Spark on a cloudless night, he would’ve been mistaken for a simple albino were it not for the visible wisps of cold air that curled off his every exposed bit of skin as though his very presence sought to drain the world of warmth.

When he had entered the battlefield, Jon had distinctly noted a crown upon the specter’s head. That had been lost after the figure had been taken by surprise by Gendry’s shield slamming into its head. The King of Winter looked down at Jon, as though evaluating him. The worn and threadbare Night’s Watch cloak of the King seemed much the same as it had before the battle while Jon’s armor and clothing was barely hanging together: the cold, the frost, the snow and the wind having done their level best to reduce him to his small clothes before the end.

As the King stepped closer to Jon, the only son of Lyanna Stark noticed the wind seemed to have died down. The snow was no longer trying to meet his eyes though the cold had impossibly gotten worse. His every part shivering, Jon looked up to the King’s eyes and looked beyond him to see what was happening. The wind still lashed and the snow still drove with a mindless fury all around them, but they stood untouched. Alone in the middle of the storm’s eye.

The King said something to Jon in a long dead tongue, his voice at once scratching and sighing. He sounded as though his every breath were a death rattle that shook icicles where they hung. Jon stared back, willing himself to be defiant to the end, trying and trying to get his useless fingers to reach for something anything that could help him.

The King’s hands reached out almost tenderly for his head. The cold burned like no other fire, his blue nails pricking Jon’s skin as his fingers dug in, thumbs just under Jon’s eyes. Even as Jon attempted to work up the energy to try and move away, he felt a foreign energy encroach his third eye, its power dwarfing his own the same as an ocean would dwarf a chalice meant to empty it.

**You must possess knowledge to be decisive. You must possess experience to be wise. Knowledge may allow one to know, Experience may allow one to see. But only by possessing both can one find the pattern and become a part of it.**

And then Jon was drowning.

Waves of images flashed before his mind’s eyes. Images of beings both human-looking and obviously not. They were strong, they possessed power humanity could scarcely begin to imagine. But they were not gods. Not truly. As some of them discovered humanity, they found that if these lesser beings believed in them strongly enough, if they gave their devotion and their faith, they could also gain parts or even the whole of the lesser's energy in exchange. 

The power of these self-styled gods increased with the people who believed in them. Soon, their powers came to rely on the belief of humans instead of belief merely supplementing them. Now they needed to war with not only each other, but each other’s followers as well.

And all the while, their wars were fought for one purpose and one purpose alone. To challenge and take the mantle of Death, the only being who could possibly know where the one known as Life was. It was said among the higher ethereal circles that it was only when one could look unflinchingly into the eyes of death that they could see the face of life.

Jon saw more besides. The gods slaughtered and sacrificed never-endingly in an effort to challenge Death. One of them, a trickster that called itself Red, attempted to take Death by surprise. But Red failed. As punishment for his act, the other gods swore to uphold a solemn pact with Death. That as they held their own worshipers and followers in this world, so too would Death have their own. And thus, beyond the borders of each known world, those who died near it became neither living nor dead, but something different. Something made to serve Death itself until the unforeseen end of time.

The Endless Ones. 

Known to Westerosi as The Others, Essosi as The Shadows and countless other names as there were other peoples.

When Old Valyria had attempted to uncover the truth of the Ethereal War, they had opened the gateway to forces they had no hope of controlling. Not without Death’s agreement. Sensing the impending danger, the Gods had sought to stop the people of Old Valyria with storms and signs. All to no avail. Humans encroached upon Death’s domain and did not pay proper respect. So they would pay with their lives. The gods were forced to abandon Old Valyria to their fate. Jon saw the carnage from the eyes of what he now understood to be one of the Endless Kings. Those who had been taken from the ranks of Endless and allowed some measure of communion with their master to know its will and find a balance between Life and Death.

If he could’ve moved, Jon would’ve been throwing up his meals from the past three days. As it was, his mouth was stuck in a silent scream as the images came faster and faster. The Heroes of Westeros’s golden age discovering they could only drive the Endless back to the borders between their worlds. Striking a bargain; that so long as men ruled over each other, there would be a Prince who was Promised. A sacrifice meant to keep the Endless at bay, keeping their Winters from wiping out their people entirely as their brethren had Old Valyria. 

He saw they had built the wall not just to keep the Endless at bay, but to be sure the Endless also had a renewable well of humans that would become them, allowing them always to have sacrifices to keep them appeased.

But human memory is frail and often prone to tricking itself into believing pleasant lies rather than unpleasant truth. Whether they had forgotten by choice or by circumstance no longer mattered. The fact was that once more, a pact with Death had been broken. Unless a Prince was given and the tribute reinstated, this winter would be the one to doom Westeros, no matter how many of Red’s children were brought to bear.

Jon struggled to use his third eye’s power to break the surface of the waves of knowledge being forced into his mind.

 _We cannot do this, we have no promised prince for you!_ his mind screamed.

 **But you do.** Whispered back the Endless. **For you are the prince who was promised to us.**

 _How?!_ Jon’s mind couldn’t comprehend it. How was it possible that he was the sacrifice they meant to have?

 **You are a child of man. You were born from a union of base instinct and broken vows. You have proven capable of learning, of watching, of leading. Now only one thing remains. To prove yourself capable of sacrifice.** The Endless’s chilling presence answered.

 _By giving myself to you?! No, I won’t!! We will drive you back to your borders! People like us have done it before, we can do it again!_ Jon roared defiantly.

 **At what cost?** Asked the Endless.

Jon quieted. He had seen what the Endless were capable of when they grew impatient and angry. Despite the destructiveness of some, he did not believe for an instant all the people of Westeros deserved such a fate. 

_Why do you ask this of me? Why not just force me?_ Jon finally asked, weariness and a bone deep chill settling into his soul.

 **Because that which is forcefully taken will never be stronger than that which was freely offered.** Responded the Endless. His blue eyes, so inhumanly bright, seemed to almost look upon Jon with pity. **You will die here no matter your decision. The only thing you may change now is how many die after. Is there no one you would give your soul for? That you would sacrifice all that you were, that you are, that you could’ve been if it would allow them to live?**

Jon knew he was beaten there. He cared for Tyrion, for Sansa, for Bran, for Shireen, for the Men of the Night’s Watch and the Wildlings. But there had always been only one he would have willingly placed himself upon the alter for. 

Arya. Only ever Arya.

He thought of his little sister, his other half facing the Endless. She would be brave, using obsidian weapons to make a dent in their forces. But like him, she would fail. He would do whatever it took to prevent that from coming to pass. Even if it meant serving Death itself.

 _I…I offer myself as a sacrifice._ He whispered, sounding as though his spirit was breaking at every word he spoke. _If Death finds my offer pleasing, let the bargin between Endless and humans be renewed here in this place._

 **For what it is worth, you have made the right choice.** Said the Endless before their energy began to ruthlessly and systematically enter everything inside Jon.

Jon felt his memories, his emotions, his body, his very soul being crushed, torn apart and remade into something else by the Endless.

He thought of Lyanna Stark, the mother he had never known. 

He thought of Robert Baratheon, the father he had never wanted. 

He thought of Eddard Stark, the teacher he had never understood. 

He thought of Bran, of Sansa, of Shireen, of Robb, of Rickon, of Tyrion, of Gendry, the family he had never dreamed. 

He thought of Arya. He thought of her true smile, her breathless laugh, her messy hair. He thought of what might’ve been. He thought of his love and his dreams for her. As the last of his consciousness faded and he saw the Endless King break apart into snow that began entering his own body, he thought of only one thing.

_**I’m sorry Arya. I’m so sorry.** _

###### Author's Notes

######  Just for reference, the Smith's Spark mentioned in the story is my own personal thought on what the North Star is named in the Game of Thrones verse. Man, this was a lot more depressing than even I thought it would initially be. I am very interested in hearing what you guys think of my take on the Prince who was Promised concept though. Big thanks go to Adamaris, joyblue and Baccan for being my most consistent reviewers thus far, AzureKun for leaving such a touching review back in the second chapter, and all four of the above as well as ygrittebardots, davincis_girl, Feanor, MostTulip, BookNerdie, camilionkd, Anam_Cara plus the 26 other guests who were kind enough to leave kudos on the work. Thank you guys for your continued support of this endeavor!


	5. Winter's Troublemakers III (Or The Reason Arya is no longer allowed to play Come Into My Castle with Sansa))

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While rewatching Monty Python and the Holy Grail, I came to the Frenchman Taunting scene. I remembered the come into my castle game mentioned in the books and also remembered that Arya (to the best of my recollection) has no real memories of playing it with Sansa. When wondering why, this sprang to mind.

After a few years of getting used to the new living arrangements, Robb was getting to have quite a lot of fun in the company of Theon Greyjoy. The boy felt like the older sibling he’d never had, the squire who would actually talk and joke with him like he was one of them instead of the Lord of Winterfell’s son who they needed to tread carefully around in case they offended his lord father by some slip of the tongue.

Despite his enjoyment of the Ironborn ward’s wit, he still found that the best place around Winterfell for sheer entertainment value was seeking Jon or Arya and getting them together in the same place. The most recent example being the current chaos that had directly resulted from their… _unique_ interpretation of ‘Come Into My Castle.’

If Sansa’s explanation was correct, Robb’s understanding of the traditional rules was that one person was proclaimed the lord of the castle. They had to declare their banner and their house. People would then use the proper courtesies the Septas taught to convince the lord of the castle to allow them entrance for one purpose or another. If you declared yourself of a high enough station, convincingly carried yourself with the proper courtesies observed and had an indisputable reason for the Lord to admit you, you were supposed to be allowed in. If not, you were to be denied and told that there was no place for you in the House of the Lord.

Like more and more of the things they got into, Robb wasn’t entirely sure whether it had started with Jon or Arya or if the two of them were simply operating on a different set of rules from everyone else. But in any case, he suspected that even if their lady mother disciplined Arya severely that this first time would be the last Sansa ever asked Arya to participate in ‘Come Into My Castle.’

Robb should have known something was up when Jon had snuck up to him and asked him to find anyone who might be willing to wield a stick to hide on the side of a hill nearby the small creek just outside Winterfell’s Godswood.

“And whatever you do, keep as quiet as you can.” Jon had asked in a hushed whisper, as though spies would be looking to see if he was conspiring with Robb.

Before Robb could ask for any clarification, his half-sibling had scurried off, moving from boy to boy in the yard both noble and baseborn alike, acting the same with them. Even as Theon snickered at Jon’s childishness and told Robb he was probably trying to get him to participate in some juvenile game, Eddard Stark’s trueborn heir decided he should at least see what his half-brother wanted.

When he reached the hill, he counted at least seven, maybe as many as twelve other boys, not including himself and Jon. In front of them, were a pile of sticks of sufficient thickness and length that they could’ve been used by smallfolk children to pretend they were engaging in swordplay.

“Pick one up and be ready for the signal.” Jon instructed in the same furtive tone, his own stick firmly gripped as he crouched just by the hill, seemingly listening and occasionally peeking around the corner in impatience.

The straightforward sense of commanding authority in his voice had even Robb picking up a stick before he realized what he was doing. He sidled forward to ask the questions that were bubbling to the surface of his mind: ‘What is going on here?’ ‘Why are we using sticks like this?’ ‘Who exactly are we going after?’ ‘Whose signal are we waiting for?’ ‘Where are we supposed to use these things when we do get the signal?’

As he opened his mouth, he distinctly heard Sansa a little beyond them a ways around the hill if his judging of the sound was any indication.

“Who is it that calls upon our castle to open its gates?”

To Robb’s astonishment, Arya’s voice answered.

“A lady who seeks leave to come into your castle.”

Robb inched forward to peek around the side of the hill alongside Jon, his head a few inches next to his baseborn siblings’ as he took in the scene.

Sansa, her friend Jayne Poole and some other higher born daughters and sons of visiting lords were behind a small copse of bushes across the creek in what appeared to be a clearing. The creek, barely more than a trickle this time of year, ran just a bit in front of it to make for a barely audible rushing sound, soothing in its constancy and tempo.

Some of the highborn girls were visibly covering their snickers as little long faced Arya Stark, who had already managed to get mudstains on the sleeves and hem of her rather simple dress and leaves in her hair, tried to play their game of highborn courtesy.

Sansa simply smiled in that imitation of the way their lady mother smiled when she pitied some unfortunate soul who didn’t know how foolish they were acting.

“What, may I ask, is the sigil of your house gentle lady; that you ask to enter the castle belonging to the Lady of Marquaine?” Sansa prompted.

“My Sigil is the Catapult of House Bonewood! Our words are Open This Stupid Gate Or I’ll Break It Down!!” Arya shouted defiantly, stamping her left foot in one of her most definite signals of irritation.

Robb couldn’t help himself. He snorted loudly, his right fist trying to stifle his chuckles as he watched the looks of astonishment on the other children’s faces and the look of embarrassment bloom on Sansa’s.

“That’s not a proper house.” She answered, voice strained to continue sounding like what she imagined a lady of the castle must. “Perhaps if you were to think carefully, you would remember your proper sigil and house name.”

“Do you question my lineage?!” Arya exploded, sounding every bit the indignant lordling. “I shall not forget this offense you berry-snorting, toe-jamming house of pretenders and mummers and traveling circus acts!”

Robb’s stomach was convulsing even as he attempted to hold his hand over his mouth. The looks Arya was getting were priceless. Sansa’s face turned redder and redder by the second.

“No, I shall remember this slight you honorless, faithless animal food trough wipers! I blow my nose upwind of you! I name your grandfather a fainting goat and your grandmother a thorned leaf that smelt of dead horseshoes!” Arya continued, pin wheeling her thin arms and visibly getting herself more and more worked up. 

Robb’s eyes were watering with the effort it took to keep his eyes open while his snorting became more and more pronounced.

“But perhaps I’ve been unkind to the fainting goats by naming your grandfather to such high office! After all, they have enough sense to make way when their better deigns to visit them in the sheep pen where they feast upon their own filthy farts!” Arya’s tirade was starting to crack up some of the other boys behind Robb, but the eldest Stark didn’t dare look away from the show, even as his ribs began to hurt with the effort of keeping quiet. 

Instead he whispered to Jon out of the corner of his mouth: “Di-Did you… p-put her up-“he briefly snorted into his fist. “-to this?”

Jon only gave a wide smile before answering: “Nope, this is just how she plays it with me.”

Arya began to stalk backward from Sansa’s castle, shaking her fist at the disbelieving faces in the bushy clearing every step of the way. “Well, be comfortable in your seat of soaped sand while it lasts! I charge you to be out of the castle by the time I return or I shall have my army take it from you by the poking of pointy sticks and the throwing of mud and the howling of badgers and the stamping of feet and the misusing of titles and the under-heating of tea and the smashing of lemoncakes and the scuffing of shoes and the ripping of dress hems and the-“

Arya cut herself off as she rounded the corner and her back bumped directly into Jon. She tilted her head back to look up at him while he looked straight down at her.

“They’re still there.” Arya said, her eyes bright with excitement even as Robb saw Jon give her a stick of her own.

“Well, you heard the lady men.” Jon said, glancing back at what Robb now understood was Arya’s assembled army.

 **“CHARGGGGEEEEEEE!!!!”** Jon and Arya screamed together, running around the corner waving the sticks above their heads. Robb followed at a light jog as the other boys scrambled to keep up with the twosome of Stark and Snow bearing down on Sansa’s castle like a pair of direwolves on wounded prey.

Most of the highborn children bolted once they saw the children raising sticks come rushing forward as though to trample them screaming incoherent battle cries all the way. And as they began to reach the castle, Sansa only screeched: “ARYA!!!”

Now, several hours had passed and Arya and Jon were being raked over the coals up one side and down the other by Lady and Lord Stark respectively. Sansa’s face was still the color of an overripe tomato from Arya’s throwing mud at her dress to stop her yelling when the Bonewood army had taken over the castle. And Robb had gotten more than a few dirty looks from his mother for giggling to himself whenever he thought back to the battle that had happened. He probably would get in trouble for saying so, but he had honestly preferred Jon and Arya’s version of ‘Come Into My Castle.’

As the punishments were being doled out, Sansa had asked their lady mother if she could ban Arya from ever playing Come Into My Castle with her again. Robb thought he saw the two smile down at their knees for a moment when his mother agreed.

As they were heading upstairs to get changed and ready for dinner, Arya waited before they were sure no one but Robb would see and leaped into Jon’s arms, their half-brother catching her easily. 

“It worked, it worked, it worked!” she chanted happily, giving Jon a peck on the cheek even as she grinned with plain giddiness at him.

“Was there ever any doubt little sister?” he asked, his own grin shining like the sun after a long winter as his right hand ruffled her still messy hair and his left arm held her tight.

Robb’s eyes widened as he quickly put the pieces together.

“Arya! You did all that on purpose?!” He asked in hushed amazement.

Jon looked at Robb out of the corner of his eye.

“Well, Sansa had been asking Arya for five days straight to at least try to learn a proper lady’s game.” He said, as Arya’s arms entwined themselves behind his neck so as to rest her head in her favorite position under his chin. His shoulders shrugged a bit as his right hand joined his left on her lower back to support her weight as they continued walking.

“All I did was suggest there was nothing wrong with teaching her beloved sister a new version of the game.”

Robb simply goggled at them both for their combined audacity. He couldn’t even think of anything to say to them.

“Thank the gods she didn’t try to make me do it again. I don’t know what I’d have done the next time.” Arya mumbled into Jon’s tunic.

They both turned their heads to look at Robb, a trickster’s twinkle in their identical grey eyes as they intoned a familiar phrase, two voices in concert as one.

“Don’t tell Sansa!”

###### Author's Notes

######  Ah, another day, another chance for sibling bonding. How does that old saying go again: "It's only stupid if it doesn't work?" In any case, reviews/critiques/suggestions are extremely welcome as always. Hope you guys enjoy! :)


	6. Love Among the Direwolves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little something that popped into my head. Started when wondering if Jon would take after Rhaegar more if we ever heard him sing. And it kinda evolved into this.

“Are you certain you must leave again so soon Jon?” Sansa asked him gently, her mask of the Lady of Winterfell absent in the privacy of her solar.

Jon smiled sadly at her. His quirked lips crinkled the scar bisecting his right eye that began at his prematurely graying hairline and ran to the edge of his jawline to make him look at once intimidating and protective. Sansa idly thought that despite his already salted beard and visibly worn appearance, she could definitely see why a woman might enjoy pursuing Jon. Dedicated, honorable, fair. Not to mention he was able to make others feel he was speaking to their heart when he focused his attention upon them.

Not that she had thought so extensively about it herself of course.

“If the Warden Commander is not willing to continue patrolling to keep the North of the Realm safe, why should his Brothers-in-Arms?” Jon answered rhetorically, his right hand absently rubbing his scar in a gesture of tiredness that belied his relatively young age.

Sansa gave a brief nod to show her concession of his point. If there was one thing that a person could count on come hell or high water it was that Jon took his duties very seriously.

Still, she was the Lady of Winterfell and had been for years now. She was not willing to simply let her only remaining brother (no matter what the Targaryans claimed about Rhaegar’s and Lyanna’s affair, Jon had grown up with her and Arya so he would always be her brother even if she hadn’t properly appreciated him when they were young) go back to roaming the North for a chance at catching the odd marauding band just because his guilty conscience was incorrectly telling him that his duty to the realm came before his duty to his sisters. She knew that if she brought it up Arya would agree in an instant and find some reasonable excuse about needing help as the Stewardess of Winterfell from Jon despite having figured out many of the most efficient ways of running the keep during her fourth year in the position.

“You can at least stay the night.” Sansa suggested to him in a tone she had perfected from her experiences at King’s Landing and the Vale of Arryn. The one Arya sometimes jokingly called the ‘smiling she-wolf tone.’ The voice that was all courtly pleasantries on the surface but still managed to get across a promise of great pain should the recipient not follow the instructions made in said tone.

“I suppose I could. Who am I after all to argue with the Lady of Winterfell?” Jon answered with a perfectly solemn expression that would’ve been more believable had it not been for the glint of mischief in his eyes. “Besides, it wouldn’t be right to leave without saying goodbye to Lyanne and Donnato.”

“That it wouldn’t.” Sansa agreed, knowing the children looked forward to their beloved Uncle Jon’s visits almost as much as she and Arya did. When he had been young, her own son Donnato had repeatedly asked Sansa if she was sure Uncle Jon wasn’t his father. Whenever she had to explain to him again that Jon is wasn’t his father, it always made her heart ache a little to see his small face adopt a crestfallen expression.

She knew Arya’s daughter Lyanne asked the same question of her sister on occasion. Though like her cousin, she never received the answer she wanted to hear. It had never stopped the children from loving Jon with all her heart and seeking his approval for their improvements and growths every time he stopped by (imagined or otherwise).

The saddening part of it was that Jon was a better father to them than either of their sires were or could’ve ever been.

Petyr Baelish may have taught her much in the ways of courtly intrigue and given her Donnato, but he would have been a worse father than he was husband. And considering how Sansa had become perfectly willing to slip the poison known as the Strangler into his stew one night and watch him choke in their shared bed after being married to him; that said a lot of things. 

None of them good.

Aegon Targaryan had wanted Arya badly enough that he was willing to tell her that Jon was killed in battle and had taken advantage of her vulnerability afterward. Once he had satisfied his lustful curiosity, he had lost all interest in Arya. Though that hadn’t stopped her younger sister from kneeing him in the stones once before she had left King’s Landing for Winterfell.

Last Sansa had heard, Aegon had taken Margery Tyrell and Arianne Martell as sister wives with his aunt’s permission.

“Speaking of which,” he continued, interrupting Sansa’s train of thought. “Where are the two little ones?”

“They’re likely out in the yard with Arya or in the Godswood talking to Bran.” She answered.

“Then I suppose I should find them before they get away.” Jon observed, standing to go. Sansa remained seated, looking automatically to the paperwork on her desk. As such she didn’t notice him stride up to her chair before gently pulling her up by her shoulders.

Startled, Sansa began to ask: “Jon! What’re you-“

Before she could finish asking, he embraced her. His arms managed to encircle her around her shoulders like the top of a fur-lined cloak the heat of his body permeating the layers of both their clothes and warmed the back of her shoulders like the sun on a cloudless day in King’s Landing. Sansa felt a blush rise in her cheeks that could match her hair as Jon’s chest pressed against her own. This was some of the most physical affection he had shown her since they were reunited after the turmoil of the War of the Endless Night.

Her own arms acted to automatically clasp together behind Jon near the small of his back as her chin rested instinctively on his shoulder. The feeling of love, of acceptance, of affection, of happiness he managed to give off with such a normal gesture was almost intoxicating.

_If this is what it felt like, it’s no wonder Arya always wanted to be around him._ Sansa couldn’t help but think, her long dormant romantic side flaring to life as she finally found the embrace of a man who loved and accepted her for who she was: strengths and faults alike.

As he held her, she heard him whisper a quiet: “Thank you. For everything Sansa.” directly in her ear. His naturally low tone sounded somewhat husky as he expressed his thankfulness at her giving him an excuse to stay. Sansa couldn’t help her eyes closing as his voice seemed to bypass her ear and mind to be felt directly in her now rapidly beating heart.

She didn’t have the words to speak so she let her arms tighten a bit in response.

As his arms started to let go what could’ve been five minutes or an hour later, she was startled to find she felt like groaning in disappointment that he was letting go. She had never had that kind of reaction to such a simple thing as a hug before. As he stepped back, he kept his hands on her shoulders as her own hands fell to her sides.

“Well what do you know?” he observed quietly, his lips upturned affectionately. “It seems the Implacable Lady of Winterfell can be flustered after all.”

Despite the flush that suffused her lightly freckled cheeks, Sansa smiled back at him. She understood he was being gentle in his teasing, treating her much as he would’ve treated Arya or a woman he felt comfortable enough to exchange wits with. She was glad he felt he could be so open with her now despite their distant relationship in childhood.

He kissed her forehead before turning to go. “I shall see you this evening My Lady.” Came his parting words as the door closed behind him.

Sansa sat back in what was once her father’s chair. As she glanced out the window and saw the light layer of frost covering the grounds and the cloudy sky she couldn’t help but smile like the sun was out. It was good to have all of her family here at Winterfell again.

As the afternoon turned to night and the Starks all sat down to dinner, it was just the five of them at a smaller table. Sansa and Arya on one side of the table, Jon facing them with Donnato on his right and Lyanne on his left.

Sansa wasn’t sure what it was about Jon that made him so popular with children of many different temperaments. Perhaps it was the fact that he was always willing to put aside time for them no matter how much he personally had in common with them. Perhaps it was the fact that he treated them with respect: asking their honest opinions and genuinely taking their words of advice into consideration. Or perhaps it was that he took them as they were no matter their interests or beliefs. Or perhaps it was simply that he was so honest and straight-forward about it when he did all of those things for them.

In any case, it had led to Jon being the person who both her son and her neice would always request to sit by if they had any choice at all. Though how he managed to coax Donnato into saying more than five words when Lyanne got into one of her excited storytellings was beyond Sansa.

As the night wore on and the children were visibly drooping in their seats, Jon volunteered to put them to bed himself.

“Oh, you needn’t trouble yourself.” Sansa responded automatically, thinking he’d probably prefer to get some sleep in order to be back with his men the next day.

Jon smiled at her in a way that sent a small lurch through her stomach. “It’s no trouble at all Lady Sansa.” He answered. “I may not be a wet nurse, but I’d like to think I can put them to bed well enough.” He teased, causing Arya to snort into her goblet of fermented goat’s milk.

“If you wish Jon.” Said Sansa, unable to help the slight giggle that came when he managed to pick up both children at once, one small head on each of his shoulders as his crooked arms held them up underneath their legs.

Once he was safely out of the hall, Arya turned to Sansa with an expression of inquiry on in her stormy grey eyes.

Sansa, unsure what had confused her sister so, asked: “What?”

After several moments, Arya questioned: “Would you like to see something?”

Without waiting for a response, she stood silently and began walking out of the hall following the direction Jon had taken to put the children to sleep.

Sansa’s instincts were telling her that this was important to Arya. She followed without question, he longer legs allowing her to catch Arya and keep pace with her despite the younger woman’s visibly trained way of walking.

As they got closer to the children’s room, Sansa looked to Arya in confusion. Arya simply held a finger to her lips before moving right up to the door and pushing it open enough that they could see through the crack and clearly hear what was happening in the room.

As both sisters settled in behind the door to watch, they saw Jon place his nephew and neice on their respective beds.

“Uncle Jon?” Came Donnato’s quiet voice, his dark brown hair just visible from their angle.

“Yes Donnato?” Jon answered, sitting on the foot of the boy’s bed.

“Will you sing Joy With You tonight?” Sansa’s little one requested, the soft hope in his voice bare for his uncle and his unknown watchers to hear.

Jon ruffled his hair affectionately. “Of course I will.” He said.

As Jon took a deep breath, Sansa reflected on the fact that she had never known Jon to sing when they were younger. Or if he had, he had certainly never allowed anyone who had heard him to so much as hint at it before.

And then she heard his song begin.

His voice was not that of a trained singer. But where other bards would get by on their vocal range and their ability to convey different character’s voices, Jon allowed the emotion behind his words to draw what he thought were only two small listeners in.

“Of all the money that ever I spent, I spent it in good company.” Came the opening line. As he sang, Sansa noted that she could already see Lyanne’s breathing deepening beneath the blankets as Arya’s daughter listened to her uncle serenade her and her cousin.

“And all the harm that ever I’ve done, alas it was to none but me.” He continued. Sansa privately wondered if that was how he felt about the things he had done, if his sense of responsibility led him to privately take the blame for events he had no control over. Certainly, growing up with her lady mother making it clear to him that his very birth had been a mistake would’ve contributed to that feeling even if he didn’t like to acknowledge it.

“And all I’ve done, for want of wit. To memory now, I can’t recall.” Sansa knew that all three of them could relate to that feeling. Of knowing that they’d made so many mistakes, that they could’ve done things differently, that maybe it would’ve helped their family survive, that it would’ve done more or done something for them.

“So fill to me the parting glass. Good night and joy be with you all.” He got up, moving over to Lyanne’s bed as Donnato settled further into the covers.

“Of all the comrades that ever I’ve had, they are sorry for my going away.” Was Jon thinking of the Night’s Watch? Of his Black Brothers? Of the soldiers the Targaryan queen had placed under his command for the Battle of the Eternal Night? She wasn’t sure.

“And all the sweethearts that ever I had, they would wish me one more day to stay.” As he finished the line, he had gently kissed Lyanne’s forehead. Sansa had never heard him speak of any women he had had before. Unabated, an image came to her mind’s eye of Jon standing in front of an indistinct female figure. Of him turning and walking away from her to come back to his family in Winterfell. She didn’t know if he had left because the woman (or was it women as he implied) were dead or because they had given him an ultimatum? In either case, he had chosen herself and Arya over them. Over finding another like her. She wasn’t sure how she should feel about that.

“But since it falls unto my lot, that I should rise and you should not, I’ll gently rise and I’ll softly call: good night and joy be with you all.” He was moving back over to Donnato’s bedside, the boy turning so he could see his uncle approach. In that moment, Sansa understood why her son kept asking if Jon was his father. He was very much like her when she had been young. He wanted the man who looked after him like this, who cared for him like this, who loved him like this to be the one he could call father and all that would mean. But he couldn’t. Because his blood father was dead. His blood father had been clever but ruthless. His blood father had been dedicated but selfish. His blood father had been calm by so very angry with the world itself.

Her poor son had a man in his life he could believe in as a father. He wanted so badly to have a father that was worthy of the title. But all he had was Uncle Jon.

“A man may drink, and not be drunk. A man may fight, and not be slain. A man may court a pretty girl. And perhaps be welcomed back again.” Jon sounded almost wistful here, as though he had hopes of that once. That now it was something he held more hope for his nephew than for himself. Sansa had never quite understood how it was he could believe so much in all of his family (well maybe not her lady mother though who could blame him there) and yet never transfer nearly as much of that belief and faith to himself and his own abilities.

“But since it has so ought to be, by a time to rise and a time to fall: come fill to me the parting glass. Good night and joy be with you all.” He kissed Donnato’s forehead gently before standing off the bed. Sansa felt Arya tap her shoulder. She looked to her. Her sister gestured that she wanted her to follow. Sansa complied, walking in silence side by side with the sister she had once called Arya Horseface behind her back.

“Good night and joy be with you all.” The sad whisper that ended the song just caught her ear as she and Arya rounded the corner of the hall, heading back towards the Lady and Stewardess’s shared bedrooms.

As they entered Arya’s room, Arya sat upon her bed. The fur lined sheets were good for keeping the cold breezes out, though the yellow sandy color was something Sansa had never quite understood. Fond memories of Braavos perhaps?

Arya patted the space beside her on the bed. Sansa willingly took it, her shoulders brushing Arya’s now that they were roughly the same height when they sat. Before long the silence was broken. Arya was the first one to speak.

“He’ll be going out to the Godswood for a while to be alone. We have some time to talk.” Her dark haired little sister started.

“Time to talk about?” Sansa prompted, turning herself to face Arya. She tucked a few stray auburn hairs behind her ears.

“Convincing Jon to stay and act as their fathers.” Arya said it so matter of factly, Sansa was sure her sister had been thinking about it for some time. After all the time he’d spent with her children and the display she’d just seen in the bedroom: Sansa was well aware she’d been contemplating the same thing for some time now even if she’d refused to acknowledge it.

“How do we convince him?” She asked. Arya seemed surprised she didn’t object to her proposal.

“I’ve seen how he is with them Arya.” Sansa explained. She looked down at her lap as she went on. “I never deceived myself into thinking **I** of all people could convince him to stay.” She continued, that quiet admission making her feel the beginnings of a lump in her throat.

“I could never convince him either.” Arya admitted.

Sansa looked up in astonishment. She was the one Jon had attempted to abandon his post as Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch for to rescue. Surely if another person could convince him of something it was Arya?

“I tried and I tried, but never had any success.” Arya elaborated, her hands reaching out to Sansa’s. “But I think…” She continued cautiously, as though afraid of incurring her sister’s scorn or wrath. “…I think that together we could succeed where individually we have failed.”

Sansa’s mind raced, her internal political calculations reading Arya’s body language, facial expression and tone of voice before reaching what she hoped was the right conclusion.

“…And if that meant…more… **physical** …measures had to be taken?” Sansa clarified, seeing Arya’s eyes connect with her own. There was no missing that gleam of hopeful confirmation in her sister’s face.

Sansa drew in a deep breath. This was a big decision to make. One that would impact the future of Winterfell. Of herself and Arya. Of both their children. Of Jon. Of the realm itself. Many would’ve cautioned her against it. Would’ve warned her that they were being foolish and childish and naïve to think that they could do something like this and make it work. But Sansa for one was tired of being cynical. Of keeping one eye open when she slept. Of feeling such distance between herself and the rest of the world. If this was the only way she could find some lingering embers of happiness then so be it. She was willing to take a chance.

“I’m in.” She said. The smile those two words brought to Arya’s face made any lingering doubt in her mind vanish. She was bringing her family together again.

Later, when Jon came to visit Arya’s room to say goodnight, he appeared surprised to find her naked above the covers.

Sansa thought his stutter adorable when he asked what she was doing.

As Arya kept his attention by sitting up and stretching, Sansa came upon him from behind, giving a kiss to his neck. He tasted of frost and bark and earth. He smelled of home. Her hands ran over his tunic as her bare breasts pressed into his back. The heat emanating from his face made her grin even wider against his throat.

After that night there was no doubt remaining in any of the three remaining Stark’s minds just how much they meant to each other.

###### Author's Notes

######  Hope you guys enjoyed this little shot. I swear, I don't know why the trinity of Stark isn't a more popular pairing. And remember, I'm always happy to hear what you lovely viewers think of the efforts that get put on here. :)


	7. Winter's Troublemakers IV (or How Arya's First Word Ruffled Some Feathers)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another shot in Winter's Troublemakers, this one more food for thought as well as humor I hope.

Catelyn Stark was frustrated by her youngest daughter.

Any of the castle staff even passingly familiar with the Lady of Winterfell could’ve guessed it would happen again sooner rather than later. Some of the younger staff were even bold enough to roll their eyes in private and ask each other what else was new.

The sun rose, the winter came and Lady Stark was unsatisfied with her youngest daughter as the saying went.

This time though it was because she was trying to get her child to speak. Had repeatedly attempted to teach her some basic words so she could communicate. Mother had garnered no response. The same with father. And Nan. And sister. And so many other words that Catelyn sometimes wondered in the dead of night if perhaps her second daughter was a mute.

But then she would remember her child laughing and cooing and babbling for her husband’s bastard son and her gut would churn a bit as she wondered what it was about a boy not even of her own body that he could manage to get such a reaction out of her child that the rest of her family couldn’t.

Despite her efforts, she still hadn’t managed to convince her husband that Jon Snow would prove a bad influence on her daughter. 

Several days later, she was presented with her proof.

As she was trying to talk Arya into saying actual words: her grey eyed little one looked up at her, her lips obviously attempting to form something understandable. Catelyn waited with baited breath as Arya’s tiny tongue struggled to make the word she wanted.

And promptly knocked Catelyn’s breath out of her in a shocked exhale when the word that emerged with such a happy tone proved to be one of the last she would’ve ever suspected.

“Bitch!” Arya proclaimed triumphantly, waving her chubby arms at her mother and smiling widely as though she had just accomplished something so worth being happy about.

Catelyn felt her right eye spasming in that familiar fashion that the household would in later years come to privately refer to as her ‘Arya Twitch.’ She knew her husband’s bastard son was responsible for this. How, she wasn’t sure. But she was going to prove it.

She instructed the household to bring the boy to Arya’s room while she smiled in a strained way at her toddling daughter. “Very good Arya, I’m glad to see you’ve learned a new word.” She murmured softly as she attempted to hold her child to her. Only to have Arya struggle and squirm to get down from her in order to move about the room.

When Jon entered the room, his face immediately blanked while Arya’s lit up. She immediately crawled over to Jon and, right before Catelyn’s narrowed eyes, tugged on his leggings to get his attention. As her husband’s Snow boy deliberately looked down at her Arya instantly thrust her arms toward him in a manner that insisted he pick her up.

To Catelyn’s mounting displeasure, Jon Snow obeyed without question. He picked Arya up with an ease of familiarity and lack of struggle on the babe’s part that had Catelyn biting her tongue in order to not say something sharp. Yet.

“Arya said her first word today.” She said, her tone inflectionless. She monitored his reaction as his arms protectively brought Arya’s head in front of his heart.

Catelyn thought she heard Arya sigh contentedly as the bastard did so, only shifting minutely in what appeared to be her effort at getting more comfortable.

“Did she?” He asked quietly, as though he had no idea why he was here.

“Do you know what the word was?” She asked him, not being willing to let him claim ignorance.

He cocked his head curiously. “I doubt it’s the one I think it is.” He said.

“She said bitch.” Catelyn’s response came, sharper on her tongue than it had initially intended to be as her husband’s bastard stood there as bold as brass as though he had nothing to do with that.

To Catelyn’s quiet fury, he simply shrugged his right shoulder, not disturbing the now lightly slumbering Arya.

“Robb and I have brought her to see the kennel multiple times before. No doubt she remembers Farlan speaking with us about the dogs being kept there.” He explained quietly. “But with all due respect Lady Stark, that wasn’t her first word.”

“And how would you know that, Jon Snow?” She asked in a dangerously soft voice.

Instead of answering, Jon prodded Arya’s tummy. “Come little sister, time to wake up.” He said in a sing song tone. Just as Catelyn was about to reprimand him for waking the girl, she heard Arya’s mumbled response.

“Bastard.” The young child blinked sleepily before yawning widely and visibly going back to sleep. Catelyn felt as though she had been punched. Where could she have learned **that** term of all things?!

“Because that was her first word.” He said after Arya went back to slumbering in his arms.

“Did you teach her that word, Bastard?!” she hissed angrily, not willing to wake her sleeping daughter.

Jon simply looked at Catelyn with those grey eyes she hated to see on a child not her own. After several interminable minutes of waiting, he carefully placed Arya in her crib before answering her.

“I’m sure I haven’t the first idea where she could’ve learned that word Lady Stark.” He said before silently turning and walking out of the room without a so much as by her leave.

Catelyn's eye twitched.

###### Author's Notes

######  Can you guess I'm not Catelyn's biggest fan? I hope it doesn't show too much. Anywho, leave a review, prompt, critique, thoughts or anything at all really. I always enjoy hearing from you guys! :)


	8. Winter's Troublemakers V (or Making Training Fun the Stark Way)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is what happens when I listen to Mulan's "Make a Man Out of You" and wonder what a training montage involving the Stark kids would look like.

Not for the first time, Robb wondered how Jon did it.

The practice armor they both had to wear was extremely cumbersome and was meant to hamper as much as to protect so that they would need to learn to work with the extra weight when they were dealing with the real thing. And yet, Jon had somehow been adapting to the extra weight even faster than Robb had.

And it was starting to drive Robb spare. Always being a few seconds slower, one or two footsteps behind Jon in the next attack sequence when there appeared to be no substantial difference in what and how they were taught by Ser Rodrik. So one day, he resolved to figure out how Jon did it.

What he found had not been to his expectation at all.

Soon after the end of their lessons, Jon had said he was going to be just outside the walls of Winterfell with Arya if Robb wanted to join them. Robb had declined, citing a desire to speak with Theon as his excuse. Jon simply shrugged and went on his way without so much as a glance back. Robb quickly made a beeline to the station inside the gate that would allow him to keep track of Jon’s progress while not allowing his half-brother to see him.

As Jon moved toward the outer forest, Robb stealthily moved out behind him, keeping as far as he dared before thinking he would lose him. He initially panicked when he thought he would lose Jon amid the copse of trees. But as he looked for the disturbances in the foliage, he found it a simple enough matter to keep track of where he was going. Soon, he heard grunting up ahead of him. Jon sounded as though he was struggling to move something that was heavy enough for him to feel the weight but not heavy enough that he was unwilling to try moving it.

Robb crept up to the bushes, curious about what he would discover if he peered over the leaves now. He mentally marked what he saw as one of the queerest things he had yet seen in Winterfell. Though considering just who the odd picture involved, his inner thoughts told him he honestly shouldn’t be so surprised anymore.

In the small clearing was Jon. He had stripped to the waist, his leggings and his boots still firmly attached while he did pushups on the cold ground. That wasn’t the strange part. The part that caught Robb off guard was what he was using as weight.

Sitting cross legged upon his back chatting about what had happened that day without a care was their sister Arya.

“Oh Sansa, how absolutely lovely your stitching was today!” Arya mocked in an exaggerated old crone’s voice that Robb had heard her use when she was particularly irritated with Septa Mordane.

“It’s not fair,” she continued in her normal voice, crossing her arms even as Jon grunted with each push of his arms against the unmoving earth. “She praises Sansa every time she picks up that stupid sewing needle and flinches if I move mine away from the fabric!”

“Well,” Jon began to answer, his voice only lightly strained as he continued his pushups. “Perhaps that might have something to do with how your needles always seem to mysteriously end up in whichever chair happens to be near you.” He remarked, letting himself move toward the earth before holding himself inches above the ground, his arms at perfect angles while his back remained still enough for Arya to sit upon.

Arya shrugged carelessly in response.

“I can hardly be blamed if the needles are so attracted to Sansa they have to make themselves known, can I?” She asked rhetorically. Where before she had been sitting in the small of Jon’s back, her front facing his buttocks, she used her arms to spin herself around on him, her legs separating on either side of his waist.

“But it’s time for the Root Dodge now anyway!” She continued brightly, her hands clapping briefly before they alighted on his shoulders.

Her legs curled and crossed in front of Jon’s bellybutton as he let his own knees touch the ground, back still straight. He abruptly pushed himself up so that he was kneeling on the forest floor while the rest of him was standing straight as an iron blade.

Arya had evidently been expecting this. Her arms had already made their way around to the front of Jon’s neck and appeared to be gripping each other. She giggled in delight as the sudden movement attempted to buck her unsuccessfully from her brother’s back.

As Jon shook his arms out before standing upright, he called out to the surroundings.

“Guess Theon could wait after all eh?” He said with a small grin on his normally stoic face.

Robb could tell he had been caught out. After having seen all this, he couldn’t find it in him to be upset however. He moved from the bushes boldly.

“What are you two doing out here?” Was his immediate question. He saw Jon’s grin widen and his eyes shift to look at Arya over his shoulder using his peripheral vision.

“You realize this means I won right?” Jon said to their sister, his smile showing teeth now as she groaned and buried her face in the back of his neck.

“Thanks a lot Robb.” Came Arya’s muffled sarcasm from Jon’s back. “You just cost me a week’s worth of deserts.”

“How did I cost you desert for a week?” Robb asked in mystification.

“I bet that you would be the first one to find out about this. Arya bet it would be Bran.” Jon explained. His grin was unfaltering as he tested out the mobility of his body. He rotated his arms in their sockets, stretched his torso from side to side and reached down to touch his own boots. Aside from some minor shifting, Arya appeared to be unmoving in her position from behind him.

“Well, how was I supposed to know Robb would get smart enough to wonder where you went to practice on your own?” Came the indignant demand from the youngest female Stark.

“Hey!” Robb objected. He was not an idiot; he knew Jon practiced on his own. It was just the first time he had felt driven to try and investigate why that was.

“Why don’t you join us for the Root Dodge Robb?” Jon offered, facing toward the trees as if getting ready to race off into them. “Just follow my lead and try to keep up.” He offered, Arya’s head moving to observe Robb’s answer.

Robb didn’t have to think for a moment.

“This ought to be interesting.” He remarked as he got ready to run, confident he could keep up with a Jon weighed down by a younger sibling clinging to his back.

It wasn’t quite so easy as that.

Oh yes, he was close behind Jon the entire time to be sure. But while he had to be careful moving among the thick roots and trying to watch for the even thicker branches that seemed to stick out just about everywhere, Jon managed to get through the snaring foliage without looking at his feet once. The main reason Robb was able to keep out was because at apparently random intervals, Arya would yell for Jon to do something.

“Duck!” she would yell, and he would immediately dip his torso low to avoid a non-existent danger to his head.

“Spin!” she would yell, and he would twirl around of an invisible obstacle before continuing to run forward.

“Jump!” she would yell, and he would take a running leap forward. It certainly made for an interesting moment in time, Jon’s stoic expression as he followed her instruction: both his feet off the ground, leaving them floating inches above the earth for a moment as Arya whooped like she had just gotten a well trained horse to do something particularly exciting.

The twosome of Stark and Snow managed to reach the finish just before Robb did. Jon was breathing hard while Robb attempted to do the same without making it obvious he was just as breathless.

“Back?” Jon asked his passenger after some minutes had passed.

“Back.” Arya answered firmly, legs and arms shifting so as to prevent numbness from entering her limbs.

Robb could remember the path they had taken from the clearing and so was already better able to keep pace as they got back. Once they reached it, Jon carefully got down on one knee so that Arya could dismount. As the young girl praised Jon by telling him that she felt he had been getting faster this week than he had last, Jon asked if Robb wanted to bring Bran next time he came by.

“What for?” Robb asked, confusion furrowing his brow.

“So you’ll be able to practice like us.” Jon said easily.

Robb opened his mouth to say no, that while this was fun but he wasn’t sure he wanted to do it all the time, but then caught sight of both their expressions. Their identical grey eyes seemed to shine with anticipation of having a good fun competition. In the face of their naked enthusiasm, he had no choice but to agree.

Two days later, he had brought Bran to the clearing where Jon and Arya were waiting. When the boys got there, Jon had proposed that Bran be his partner and Arya be Robbs’. Arya had protested this, claiming Robb would slow her down.

“Either we have someone who doesn’t know how this works use someone who doesn’t know how this works, or we split the experience down the middle so everyone can get a better idea of what to do.” Jon had calmly responded, gently nudging her toward Robb.

Arya had complied reluctantly.

“Better you than me.” Bran had interjected, laughing as Arya swiped at him while acting as though being partnered with Robb would ruin the win record she had with her older half-brother.

“If Robb drops me, I’m going to hold **you** responsible.” She sternly warned Jon, eyes narrowed even as he ruffled her hair in response.

Robb had thought he could handle this even in the face of Arya’s open skepticism. After all, she was one little girl. How heavy could she be?

As it turned out, heavy enough to throw him off in every exercise he attempted.

Her weight and constant minute shifting when he did pushups caused him to face plant into the ground more than once.  
Her grip fluctuated between alarmingly loose and snake-constricting-his-neck tight while he tried squats. And the less said about how difficult it was to balance her bony little body on his knees while doing crunches, the better.

Finally came the time for the race. Bran and Arya had taken similar positions upon Jon and Robb’s respective backs. Pride stinging, Robb had (somewhat rashly) bet that Jon and Bran couldn’t win against himself and Arya. The stakes evolved into the losing pair having to do whatever the winning pair told them to for a week.

With barely a breath after agreeing, Jon and Bran had taken off, Robb scrambling to catch up while Arya’s jostled legs and heels occasionally drove into his stomach. (When he asked her later, Arya had denied any sort of deliberate attempt to spur him on like a disobedient mule.)

Bran had whooped victoriously as he and Jon pulled ahead, Jon’s own torso shining with sweat much as Robb imagined his own must be under the layers of clothing he had foolishly decided to keep on for the competition.

They reached the half-way point, Jon and Bran making a show of yawning as Robb and Arya came to the clearing soon after.

“Gods, they certainly took their sweet time, didn’t they Bran?” Jon asked his younger brother, smirking. Bran’s snorted chuckling echoed though the clearing as he nodded enthusiastically.

“You’ll pay for that when you’re doing everything I tell you over the next week Jon.” Robb shot back. Arya decided it was far more mature to simply stick her tongue out at the two of them.

“Well, I guess you’ll just have to keep **up**!” Jon shouted, taking off again on the word up.

Robb moved after him even as Arya’s right heel slammed into his stomach, making him wheeze in surprise.

The race was much closer, Robb steadily gaining on Jon and Bran even as they began to reach the end. He kicked up his efforts until he could practically see Jon in profile out of the corner of his eye. Just as the finish was in sight, Jon abruptly stumbled. He never dropped Bran and barely dropped his pace for more than a moment, but it was enough of an opening for Robb to surge forward with Arya and claim victory.

As Arya and he shouted joyously though the clearing, Jon and Bran catered into range. Jon knelt to let Bran off of him while Arya simply dropped off of Robb’s back without warning, causing him to stumble forward two paces.

Both older boys were panting with exertion, Jon still taken to one knee while Robb was bent at the waist with both hands on his own shaking legs.

“Guess…I’m better…than you…thought.” Robb gasped out at Arya now that he had proven Jon’s better at the race.

“For now.” She answered, climbing onto Jon’s back once he had put his tunic back on and taking her former position with legs crooked so that his arms could go under and hold them. Jon obliged, arms threading under her knees before locking his hands together in front of his stomach and standing up.

“I suppose we should…get back.” Jon ventured, standing upright again. His panting had subsided into the occasional deep breath. Robb and Bran agreed wholeheartedly.

As they were making their way up to Winterfell’s gate again, Robb felt Bran pull him back from the happily chatting Snow and Stark ahead of them.

“You do realize Jon let you win right?” Bran asked him bluntly.

“No he didn’t!” Robb answered automatically, unwilling to let his victory have been some act of competitive pity on Jon’s part.

“Yes he did.” Bran said.

“And why would he do that?” Robb asked as Arya’s laughter rang out ahead of them when Jon playfully jostled her on his back in a clearly half-hearted attempt of getting her off.

Bran simply looked at them and then looked at Robb like he was being deliberately dim. Robb silently conceded the point. Of all the Stark children, Jon was the one everyone got along with best. When was the last time he had ever made one of them upset when there was no need?

“Don’t tell Arya.” Bran whispered.

###### Author's Note

######  ...I'm not sorry at all that I came up with this. :) Review, Comment, Critique! Tis the coin of the realm folks!


	9. Reflections of a Packmate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little something on Jon from Ghost's perspective

The white one had been the first to open his eyes.

While his siblings had nuzzled their mother’s cold body for milk that would never come, he sought to crawl somewhere anywhere safer.

Then they were picked up by these two legged things that decided to bring them into the pack.

His siblings had all adapted in their own way. But he always remembered.

He knew that they lived in a world that was not theirs. He heard his packmate call him.

“Ghost! To me!” He called, grey eyes seeking him in the courtyard as the darkness fell.

His packmate seemed to be in a sullen mood to him. He pushed his nose under the packmates paw hanging at his side.

The paw went to work rubbing his sensitive nose yet the packmate’s eyes were far away. The white one wondered if perhaps the older female with the darkest brown fur on her head had upset his packmate again.

The direwolf known to most of the two legged things as Ghost reflected briefly on just how baffling they could be. They lived so many in one place, relying on others for their food, their shelter, their survival even as they did not love or even like one another.

Every passing moment another where they had to count upon the rules of the natural not taking their due for being so lax toward paying respect to them.

But then again, Ghost was happy to have become part of this strange pack if only for the fact that without them he and his siblings were alive because of it. As they traversed the courtyard, his younger sister came bounding into sight.

“Nymeria! What’re you doing out here by yourself?” His packmate asked with a surprised inflection. He knelt in front of their younger sister as her tongue hung out to help her cool herself. She was a decent size for age. Not as large as Ghost himself, but there was hardly a cousin or packmate that grew as fast as he did.

His packmate stopped rubbing Ghost’s nose in order to scratch behind Nymeria’s ear in just that way she liked. Her back left leg twitched involuntarily as she pushed the side of her head into his hand. He continued scratching for a few moments before standing again.

“I suppose you want to walk with me and Ghost?” He asked, gaining a low bark from the younger female.

His packmate simply nodded, only saying “Come along then.”

The white one knew his grey sister would be close behind. She liked the way his packmate treated her. Almost as much as she liked her own personal packmate, the small female with the dark hair and the grey eyes. When her packmate was occupied by being forced to sit, she would often seek out himself or his packmate in the hopes that they would be willing to play or explore with her. He and his packmate indulged her more than not.

It was good practice for all of them Ghost felt.

As they continued moving through the stone structures, his packmate seemed to withdraw into himself further. Like he didn’t want to return to the bedroom that housed the rest of his brothers. Ghost could understand the feeling. He looked after and loved his younger packmates where he could, but sometimes he just wanted to be left in the quiet.

The white one felt tonight merited a night of quiet. Without the loud one making so much noise that meant nothing, without the young ones needing to be careful around and without the one who looked so much like the older brownish haired female they all seemed to obey talking. Ghost pushed into the back of his packmate’s legs before moving ahead into a different direction in the place of stone.

“What is it Ghost?” His packmate asked, moving after him on instinct, their sister trailing behind them.

The white one led the grey eyed and grey furred siblings to the he and the grey eyed packmate often snuck to when they needed alone time. The shelter had not been disturbed since the last time they had been. He could smell it.

His packmate let out a surprised noise even as the smile quirked his lips. That was another thing that the two legged things did that he didn’t quite understand. But he knew that when his packmate looked as though he meant to do that, he was often in a better mood. The packmate the other two legs referred to as Jon flopped down as the bed before budging up to make room for himself and their other packmate.

Ghost moved up on the bed, Nymeria close after. They both curled into his side even as he turned on it to have his front facing them. As Ghost closed his eyes, he reflected again on how much things had changed for him and his siblings to be taken into this strange pack.

It was most certainly a good thing he thought.


End file.
